


Only Enough Room

by emef



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:43:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emef/pseuds/emef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan and Sherlock are trapped in a closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Enough Room

**Author's Note:**

> Started writing this when season three was starting; I didn’t know the end of it so it’s sort of set in an imaginary future in which **Kitty is around and living with Sherlock, Joan still lives in her apartment, and Andrew is out of the picture**.
> 
> Thanks to Samira for beta/suggestions, and thanks to Charloween for beta/handholding.
> 
> Charloween contributed the best lines, as usual.

"I'm going to kill you."

“Ah.”

Watson's words are not meant to be taken literally, of course. She is irritated because they are in a closet together and it is very small.

"No, Sherlock, you're not hearing me. You're probably thinking that I don't mean that literally."

They only just fit in between the door and back wall. Squashed in so tightly that they have only enough space to expand their rib cages when they breathe. Sherlock consults his List of Manners In Which Watson Might Actually Kill Him. He'd never considered methods that involve such close quarters. An oversight.

*

They'd been running down, down, down four flights of stairs, and Watson had started towards the underground garage. But then Sherlock had grabbed her hand, pulled her in and closed the door behind them. It all happened in a blur of adrenaline.

Sherlock had noticed the ribcage expansion aspect before anything else, because they were catching their breaths when they entered.

"Try to breathe abdominally," he had gasped, inadvertently breathing in a mouthful of Watson’s hair.

”What?"

"Instead of thoracically. It's quieter."

Watson had moved against him, straightening her posture. Breathing from her abdomen. Her nose was level with Sherlock’s clavicle and he’d felt it against his collar when she’d huffed out her breaths, each one at a slightly longer interval.

Things had seemed to come into focus as their breathing slowed. Everything became still and quiet.

Almost on cue, they’d heard the security guard’s heavy boots clanging down the hallway. The guard had walked slowly, stopping at regular intervals - perhaps looking into the window of every door. Taking his time. Watson and Sherlock had been frozen in place, listening intently. Sherlock had taken a moment to be grateful that neither of them was afflicted with claustrophobia.

The night watchman had then walked right past them, and then a minute later, when they were sure he was gone, they had tried to open the door.

*

"Seriously, I am _going_ to _kill you_."

“Not very practical, Watson, since then you would be crammed in here with my corpse and deprived of my characteristic brilliance and problem-solving acumen. I would advise postponing until we are safely delivered of this closet.”

“Sherlock.”

“…At which point your feelings on the matter may have dissipated somewhat.”

The closet has a small doorknob, but when they turn the knob, nothing happens. Sherlock feels Watson’s heartbeat spike - feels the thumping against his own chest - as she looks up around them, no doubt thinking of the limited amount of air surrounding them. They soon realize that the ventilation is perfectly adequate, however, and that they are in absolutely no danger of asphyxiation. At which point Watson moves directly from panic to anger.

"We're not supposed be in here, Sherlock. How are we going to get someone to let us out?"

“The set screw holding the doorknob to the rod has probably worked itself loose. We will have to call Kitty.”

Watson wriggles about to get a hold of her pocketbook, where it is jammed between her hip and the wall, and fishes out her phone. It takes some doing to bring the phone up to where she can see it - one of her arms is squashed in between both their chests, and the other is holding the pocketbook, but there isn’t enough space to lift it up. After some struggling, however, she perches it on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I..." Watson falters, when she looks at her phone. She falls silent.

"Watson?"

*

This can’t really be happening. There is no signal. There is no signal, no way to contact anyone, no light other than the one from the telephone screen, no space, the doorknob is faulty, the door hinges are on the outside and there is no other way out.

On the positive side, Sherlock tells himself, no one is trying to kill them, Watson's threats notwithstanding. There is absolutely top-notch ventilation, and he is fairly sure that he is not suffering from halitosis. It could be worse.

There is only a limited number of options at this point. They could either yell until someone hears them (and seriously impede the investigation), wait until someone comes by and then yell (and maybe, though not certainly, impede the investigation), or find another way of getting out (impact on the investigation: unknown.) There is also the possibility, Sherlock thinks, that they won’t get out (which would only _prolong_ the investigation because then they will be dead and Kitty will have to complete the investigation by herself.)

The tools at their disposal are limited. They have lockpicking kits but the space is too small to use them. All they have left are their voices, their phones, Joan’s extendable baton, and her taser. And their brains.

“We’ll have to think ourselves out of this place, Watson,” Sherlock tells her.

“I -” She shakes her head. Her hair brushes against his neck, strands slipping into his collar. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Neither can I, truth be told. Nevertheless -“

She huffs against his shoulder. “I can’t believe… Fine. Fine. I’ll wait until _after_ we get out of here to kill you. ”

It only takes them a few minutes to confirm that the ventilation shaft is both inaccessible and too small, and after that, they are both out of ideas. They don’t want to immediately start yelling, or otherwise make their presence known.

"Well! Watson, let us see this as an opportunity for study."

"Oh my God," Watson mutters.

"While I have solved many a locked room mystery, I confess to never having solved a problem in which I had to _remove_ myself from a locked room."

"More of a locked cupboard."

"Yes, well. Let us not bow down before a challenge."

*

Alpha Real Estate have owned this building since 2005, their purpose being to rent office suites out to various companies. They purchased it from a developer named Montoni, who acquired it from the original owner, a Signora Laurentini, under shady circumstances. A variety of incidents have led to it gaining a reputation as a “haunted” building. In the past two years alone, the building’s history has been plagued by twelve separate documented reports of mysterious voices, five detailed sightings of strangely-dressed persons who appeared to vanish into thin air, and eight accounts of strange lights.

Alpha Real Estate had given the handling of rentals and property management to an unfortunately high number of employees in the past decade, none of them wanting to be stuck with the job for very long. The place was hell on performance reviews.

In 2015 the building - nicknamed Udolpho Place by a real estate agent with too much interest in pre-nineteenth century literature and too little business sense - was finally put up for sale. And maybe the nickname tipped them off, because it was at that point that one of Alpha’s real estate agents - Emilie Aubert - started to look into the possibility that the “hauntings” had been faked. She hired Sherlock and Watson and gave them the names of every buyer expressing interest in purchasing the place. The theory was that someone had somehow faked a haunting to push the price down, and therefore be able to buy it at a massive discount.

And that’s how Sherlock and Watson found themselves in Udolpho Place’s fourth basement. They had come to investigate, and started with the lower levels. It was imperative that no one - not even the building employees - suspect their involvement. No one is supposed to know they are in the building. Which is why they had taken such pains to remain out of sight of the guard, and run into a closet.

*

After twenty minutes of reviewing everything they know and analyzing their location as best they can, they have solved nothing, and Sherlock is nowhere nearer to feeling comfortable with their proximity.

He finds himself rambling. “Do you know, Watson, when I went through my rehabilitation, I believe that what motivated me was - it was rage. Only rage. Rage towards my father, and towards everyone who projected on me an image of someone hopeless, useless. All that motivated me was proving those persons wrong.” Sherlock stops, takes a breath. “What I suppose I am saying, Watson, is that until I met you, I had nothing to live for. Only things to live against.”

“You know what, Sherlock? Sometimes you make these grand gestures, and you say things like that, and don’t get me wrong - I’m glad that the fact that I care about you has gotten through to you, that you don’t think it’s temporary or that I’m going to end up betraying you in some way - so that’s great and everything, but Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“That doesn’t help us get out of here.”

It is difficult to think. Normally, Sherlock isolates himself in order to puzzle out a problem but currently, that is impossible. It is a novel experience.

For forty-two minutes, Sherlock attempts to avoid thinking about the physical contact between himself and Watson.

But every time he tries to retreat into his mind, to analyse, to ponder, he is shaken out of his thought process. Joan’s ribcage expands and contracts rhythmically against his own. He makes lists of misadventures similar to theirs, analyses them for potential helpfulness, he catalogues them. Joan’s hand brushes up against his arm. He does every calming exercise he knows. He even explains some of them to Watson.

All is slowly, relentlessly, being reduced to the physicality of this. Their heads close together, Watson's breathing, the movements of her ribcage, her warm breath at his clavicle. Thoughts start coming unbidden - every theory he knew about olfactory reactions and pheromones. About fluctuating asymmetry and major histocompatibility complex. ( _Research has also shown that the scent of a low fluctuating asymmetry person is universally more attractive,_ Sherlock’s brain tells him, _and that facial attractiveness is connected to attractiveness of scent._ )

He finds himself reflexively cataloguing every note in Watson's scent.

\- sandalwood (woody)  
\- coffee (phenolic)  
\- citrus (zesty)  
\- slight orange blossom (soapy)

“Have you lost weight?” Watson asks, breaking the silence.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I just realized - I haven’t seen you wandering around shirtless for ages, and you seem… you feel like skin and bones. Have you been eating?”

“Ah. I couldn’t tell you, Watson. I don’t keep track of the food I consume. Unnecessary information.”

“Sherlock -”

“But it occurs to me that, when we met, I had just come from rehab, where food had been prepared for me and where, moreover, mealtimes were compulsory. And then, when you and I lived together, you…”

“Oh. I started out as your sober companion, so I made sure you were eating regularly.”

Sherlock agrees with a low hum.

“It never occurred to me that Kitty wouldn't -“

Sherlock cuts her off. “My well-being is not Kitty’s concern.”

Joan is silent for a time.

“Sometimes - sometimes I wish you were as protective of yourself as you are of Kitty.” She says quietly, a near-whisper. Were it not for their very great proximity - her mouth must be only a few centimetres away from Sherlock’s ear - he would not have heard it.

It could have been a peevish statement. In a different tone of voice, the same words could have been said to complain about Sherlock’s tendency to ignore his most basic needs. But Sherlock has long studied the modulations of the human voice, and what’s more, he knows Watson well. Spoken in that way, the words mean that Watson wishes him to be healthy, that is all. Because - he replays them in his mind - because she cares about him. Watson cares about him.

Sherlock clears his throat. Without quite knowing what he is about to say, he mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Joan sounds surprised.

“I’m sorry, Watson,” he repeats, enjoying the experience of surprising her. “I should have known the door would lock from the inside.”

Watson sighs. “Well I followed you in, so.”

He’s never known anyone like Watson. Watson doesn’t need his help, she is level-headed and self-reliant and functional. But who wants to spend time with him anyway. Part of him doesn’t know what she wants, and the truth is, sometimes Sherlock isn’t sure what he wants from her either.

“You okay, Sherlock?” Joan asks. Her voice is kind, gentle. “You know, I was thinking…”

Sherlock tries to interrupt. “No, Watson -”

“We should sing a song.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We need to get out of here! And we can’t do squats to get our blood flowing in the closet, so. We need something else to stimulate our brains. And we won’t be jeopardizing the investigation! If anyone hears us they’ll just think we’re ghosts.”

“Watson, I -“

Joan cuts him off. “Carrie and I used to sing this when we were going a little crazy before exams.”

“You used to _sing_?”

“Repeat after me: _toe bone connected to the foot bone_.”

Joan’s singing voice is a rather lovely, gentle soprano. Very in tune. Sherlock finds himself picturing a tiny Joan Watson in school choir. Interesting. Presumably, her choir experience was positive, if she is still so willing to sing.

She pokes him in the ribs. “Sherlock! _Toe bone connected to the foot bone_.”

“ _Toe bone connected to the foot bone_.” Let it never be said that Sherlock Holmes lets his own childhood choir traumas get in the way of indulging Joan Watson.

“Foot bone connected to the heel bone.”

They climb their way up the skeleton, until - _hip bone connected to the back bone_.

Sherlock repeats. “ _Hip bone connected to the back bone_ " - Just a moment. “I see that it is the conceit of the song, but Watson, I cannot let this inaccurate foolishness continue without comment. There is correct terminology, I think you'll find. Surely as a surgeon you would have found this in particularly bad taste."

"It's just a song. I wasn't using it as a reference point for cutting."

“I should hope not,” Sherlock says. “It would be rather a shock to cut open a body in pursuit of a ‘back bone’ only to encounter thirty-three vertebrae instead."

“Sherlock, our faces are so close that we’re basically fuzzy blurs to each other, but just so you know, I’m rolling my eyes right now.”

“Fuzzy blurs with the benefit seven cervical vertebrae each! Not these _neck bone_ which I assume will soon be coming up in the song.”

Sherlock feels Joan’s groan in his sternum. “You know what, fine, stop singing. I’ll finish the song by myself. _Back bone connected to the shoulder bone_.”

“ _Back bone connected to the shoulder bone_.” Sherlock repeats, with a bouncy beat on the word ‘shoulder,’ and feels Joan smile. The proximity makes the movements of her facial muscles clearly perceptible.

The acoustics - muted, like they’re surrounded by pillows somehow - make it seem intimate. They nearly get through the entire song, until -

"No, Sherlock, it’s 'Dem bones, dem bones...'"

“Watson, I will consent to singing about imaginary bone structures, but draw the line at pretending that I can confidently say _dem_ instead of _them_.”

“See? I knew you could say dem. Now if you can say it once, you can say it twice. _Dem bones, dem bones_.”

“ _Dem bones, dem bones_.”

Joan’s ability to see right through Sherlock’s bluster - or anyone’s bluster, for that matter - is unparalleled. She has skills and she knows things and she she was gentler with him before he left, but now she is constantly challenging him to stay. He is constantly earning her forgiveness. And she cares about him. Watson cares about him.

When they are done, Joan says, “okay now you choose a nonsense song”.

A mental image of Maestro Palmer handing him sheet music flashes through his mind. Age nine, Sherlock had read an account of the life of Carlo Gesualdo, renaissance composer, to try to scrub his brain free of the image of Maestro Palmer _looking_ at him during rehearsals. It had worked: Gesualdo had, in his lifetime (1566-1613), composed unusual chromatic madrigals, played the lute, and murdered two people, and possibly a third. Aided by servants.

“I don’t know any nonsense songs, Watson.”

“Oh come on.”

“I - would _I Am the Walrus_ be considered a nonsense song?” In adolescence, Sherlock had memorized the entire Beatles discography. It had seemed like a useful thing to know. “I’m not sure I know all the lyrics.”

“I’ll help. You start.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “ _I am he as you are he as you are me and we…_ ”

They sing, and Sherlock listens to the acoustics, wondering about the sound bouncing off the surfaces in the closet. He has a tantalizing, irrational feeling that somewhere, and very recently, there has been a clue to their way out, a fugitive hint which his sub-conscious mind has registered but which obstinately refuses to come forward and be recognized. This experience is not new to him - he has known it before. Occasionally it has led him to one of those intuitive successes on which his reputation rests.

“Can I tell you my favourite Beatles song?” Watson asks, when they’ve finished the song.

“Certainly, Watson.”

Watson’s heart beat increases slightly. “It's not nonsense though. It’s - it’s _With A Little Help From My Friends_ ”

“I see.” Sentimental, but no reason for Watson to be embarrassed.

“But the lyrics are, I mean…”

Ahhhh, the lyrics. She is of course referring to the line, _get high with a little help from my friends_ \- inadvisable singing material for addicts. “It isn’t a good choice for a singalong, no.”

Joan rests her head on his shoulder. They have been here for approximately one hour, Sherlock estimates. One hour, it would seem, is the time it takes for an English consulting detective and his American colleague to no longer consider their bodies entirely separate.

“Hey Sherlock?” She murmurs against his collarbone.

“Yes?”

“How come you never call me Joan?” She sounds like she really wants to know, which is disconcerting.

“Would you -“ _Would you prefer it?_ He does not manage to say, because at that moment they hear the clang of the stairwell door resonating through the hallway.

“What?” Joan asks, her head snapping up. “I thought the guards only did their rounds when they changed shifts. Has it really been that long?”

And then they hear one... Two... Two sets of footsteps approaching.

“No. And none of the guards would take such small steps.”

The footsteps come to a stop in front of their door.

*

A young woman’s voice, on the other side of the door. “This should be the one.”

Before either one of them can even process what's happening, the door opens, and on the other side, a young woman with short hair frowns at them. Beside her stands Kitty, who looks from Sherlock, to Joan, back to Sherlock, and rolls her eyes.

The woman with short hair turns to Kitty. “These them?”

“Yup. These are them. Thanks, Mac.”

Kitty, equanimous, steps back incrementally. When nothing happens, she blinks at them. “Well? Come on!”

Sherlock and Joan - seemingly simultaneously - realize that they’re expected to leave the closet.

*

“It would appear that one of the first things Sister Agnes did was pay the contractor to install faulty door handles.”

It’s morning, and Watson is standing at the kitchen door. “Who?”

“Sister Agnes - our perpetrator.” Sherlock holds out a plate of eggs for her. He means to rest soon, but since it is seven am, and Watson always rises at seven, he thought he might eat a morning meal with her before sleeping.

Watson stares. “The haunting of Udolpho Place was faked by a _nun_?”

“In a manner of speaking. It was, in fact, done via a number of persons hired by sister Agnes.”

Watson comes forward, takes the plate from Sherlock. When she turns towards the kitchen table, she puts her hand on his shoulder, squeezes gently, and murmurs, “thanks.” She sits. She’s still in bare feet and pyjamas.

“Bon appétit!” Sherlock sets a mug of coffee down next to her plate.

Watson looks up. “But why -“

“We didn’t immediately identify the culprit,” Sherlock tells her, still leaning over her chair, “because there was no pattern. Sister Agnes is mentally ill, and there is, so to speak, no method to her madness.”

“Okay but a _nun_?”

“Sister Agnes’ name, before joining the convent, was Signora Laurentini.”

“The original owner of the building.”

“Yes. A ghost in her own right, one supposes.”

**Author's Note:**

> So in my headcanon, the “young woman with short hair” is Cindy “Mac” Mackenzie. Mac and Kitty actually met at a survivor’s meeting - not that Kitty would ever disclose this. They are the snarkiest, angriest, most competent duo ever.
> 
> *
> 
> Funfact: my favourite Beatles song is _I Saw Her Standing There_.


End file.
